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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801875">A Promise Unfulfilled</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice'>WanderingAlice</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fighting the Current [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archangel Family Dynamics, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Family Issues, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rescue Missions, Soul Bond, Whump, cw: deadnaming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:49:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801875</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Archangel Raphael Fell from Grace at the beginning of the War in Heaven. Rather than see him complete his Fall, his siblings murdered him and threw his body down into the pit of Hell. Only, he didn't die. He was saved by the love of one principality, Aziraphale. Enduring the pain of the broken bonds to his siblings, the former archangel spent the next six thousand years in hiding on Earth, protecting his beloved angel as the demon Crowley. It was only after the failed apocalypse that Aziraphale realized the connection between Crowley and the former Raphael. Together, they began a life free from the demands of Heaven or Hell.</p><p>Three weeks ago, the archangels decided to attack. In desperation to protect Aziraphale, Crowley revealed his past self to them. It did not go well. </p><p>Now, unhinged by the revelation, the archangel Gabriel attempts a one-angel war on the forces of Hell. Instead, he gets far more than he bargained for. Can the remaining archangels work together with their former brother and his love long enough to rescue him and save the world yet again, or will the shadows of their past destroy them all?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale &amp; Michael (Good Omens), Aziraphale &amp; Sandalphon (Good Omens), Aziraphale &amp; Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Aziraphale &amp; Uriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley &amp; Gabriel (Good Omens), Crowley &amp; Michael (Good Omens), Crowley &amp; Sandalphon (Good Omens), Crowley &amp; Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Crowley &amp; Uriel (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fighting the Current [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Subscriptions</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you all so much for reading!  I hope you enjoy this story! I'm not setting a chapter limit yet, as past experience has shown that it tends to be <i>much</i> more of a suggestion than a guideline, and I'll just end up adjusting it upwards three or four times. Expect something in the 15 - 20ish range, however.</p><p>This fic is a direct sequel to The Truth Remans and Castle of Glass. You do not have to read either fic to understand this one, though there are certainly places where it might help. The biggest things you need to know are that Crowley confronted his siblings, who discovered his identity. In so doing, they attacked him and nearly killed him. In saving his life, Crowley and Aziraphale achieved a true soul bond. Crowley is still recovering from the metaphysical wounds he sustained during that attack, and Aziraphale, having felt him die twice now, is determined he shall never be placed in that position a third time.</p><p>Title taken from the song Feel the Silence by the Goo Goo Dolls</p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>And we're drowning in the water<br/>That flows under this bridge<br/>When you're fighting the current<br/>You forget how to live<br/>And I wanted to reach you but I don't know where to begin<br/></p>
</div><hr/>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The echoes are driving him insane. So faint he can almost believe he imagined them, irregular, sneaking through the cracks in the walls around his mind. An ever-present reminder that he has failed. Failed God. Failed his siblings. Failed himself. And, most damning of all, he failed Raphael. He has not avenged him, destroying the one who took his life. And now, he finds, he didn’t even succeed in destroying the demon that stole his essence and his power. It lives still, masquerading as his brother, mocking him with its very existence.</p>
<p>Another echo slips through a crack in his mind. Raphael’s laughter, bright and bold. He curses, throwing his chair against the wall just to watch it shatter. He can’t take more of this. Ever since the failed apocalypse, he’s been hearing him. Feeling him. Infrequent at first. Just feelings. A flash of love, a twinge of pain, a surprising burst of tenderness. Then he started hearing things. Thoughts. Words. Each time opens up more cracks inside his mind. More places for the echoes to sneak through. Raphael’s laughter. Raphael’s voice. A line from a song. Half of a joke. Endearments. Curses. A thousand mundane little things that might be said over the course of a day. Now they haunt his every moment. The shadow of his brother’s voice has brought him to the edge of madness.</p>
<p>It’s all been so much worse since they went to confront the traitor. Since that <em>thing</em> masquerading as their brother attacked them, made them see… he refuses to think of that. It was all lies. It can’t have been real. If it was, if it was really him, then… No. No, Lucifer killed Raphael. That demon can be nothing more than a pale substitute, Satan’s worthless attempt to steal back what he lost in his Fall. A creature sent by Lucifer to destroy them. To tear them apart from the inside.</p>
<p>Yes. That has to be it. An attack. A new attempt to restart the war, by taking out the archangels before they can gather their troops. Hitting them at their weakest point, with the one thing he <em>knew</em> would throw them off. But his ploy failed. They survived. And now… now it is up to them to make the next move.</p>
<p>Amethyst eyes blazing with anger, he summons his sword. If Lucifer wants to play games, he will give him a new game to play. One that ends with his sword through Lucifer’s heart.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Elsewhere in the universe, Crowley is laughing. He throws back his head, letting the brightness of the sound seep into the place where his soul is bound to Aziraphale’s.</p>
<p>“I don’t see that it’s all that funny,” Aziraphale pouts, still holding the plant he’d been trying to miracle back to life. “I only asked if you could fix this orchid.”</p>
<p>“Angel,” Crowley manages through his laughter. “That’s not an orchid.”</p>
<p>“It’s not?” Aziraphale frowns down at the pot, which contains the dry stems of what might once have been a flower, before Aziraphale forgot about it at the bookshop and neglected to water it for a few weeks.</p>
<p>“That’s monkshood,” Crowley tells him, gesturing for the angel to hand it over. “Totally different plant. They’re pretty, but I don’t usually keep it in my garden.” He accepts the pot, frowning down at the dried-up flowers. He usually avoids monkshood because of its meaning. In the language of flowers, it means <em>a foe is near</em>.</p>
<p>“It would be better just to scrap it and start over,” he says, wincing when he sees the life-pattern of the plant has faded away almost to nothing. Aziraphale looks at him with those wide, sad eyes, and he sighs. “<em>But</em> I should be able to save it. Here.” He leans over the table, tugging on the pattern of the monkshood until he finds the very last glimmer of life. It is enough. He blows on the pattern, feeding energy into that life until it ignites, turning the dull grey lines to bright gold. In his hands, brown turns to green, a healthy stem standing on its own, sprouting leaves and purple flowers.</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale smiles for him, and he can’t help but grin in return. “I shall try to do better by it going forward.”</p>
<p>Crowley raises an eyebrow, and works a little extra into the pattern of the plant, making it just a touch more hardy. Just in case. “Come on, angel,” he says, sliding the plant back across the table towards him. “I’ll show you some real orchids, so you don’t go buying something poisonous by accident again.” He sniffs, frowning at the simple clay pot. “Though I don’t know why you went and got something from a store. You know you can have anything from our garden.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but,” Aziraphale follows him as he carefully stands and starts out for the greenhouse out back, his movements less fluid for now as his body recovers from his siblings’ attack. “Wait, <em>poisonous</em>?”</p>
<p> “That’s what monkshood is, angel. You know aconite, and wolfsbane? Same plant.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” He frowns. “I hadn’t realized.”</p>
<p>The demon chuckles, amused. “Ask next time angel. Why didn’t you just get something from our garden?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale shrugs, fidgeting with the pot. “I see you take such care with your garden, dear. And I know I’m not exactly the best with them. I thought I’d start with something small and see how I did, before risking something you grew for me.”</p>
<p>Crowley hides a smile, surprised and pleased by the explanation. “And you thought you’d start with <em>monkshood</em>?” he asks, incredulous.</p>
<p>“Well, to be fair,” the angel’s cheeks have gone red, and he looks down at the pot in his hands. “I thought it was an orchid when I bought it.”</p>
<p>The demon laughs again, running a hand through his ember-red hair. “That’s even worse! Orchids are picky. They need a <em>lot</em> of care, and they die for the <em>smallest</em> reason. They’re the fussiest, most stuck up, needy, <em>obnoxious</em> plants.” He shakes his head at the folly of his lover. “Angel, you can kill an orchid just by <em>looking</em> at it wrong. Let’s get you something easy to start with. Can’t go wrong with a nice cactus. Well -” he stops, remembering the disasters he had to salvage in the Dowling’s garden. “Maybe <em>you</em> could. But if you really want to be good at this, I’ll help.”</p>
<p>He pauses as they reach the door and misses Aziraphale’s reply, distracted by the broken half of a sword that stands there, propped up hilt-first against the wall. Made entirely of Hell’s Obsidian and forged in a volcano deep within those infernal borders, this sword had served him well for millennia. It pains him to see it like this, the blade ending in jagged edges a full foot before it should have reached a gracefully tapered point. He doesn’t want to think about the moment it broke, the lower half shattering under the pressure of Michael’s sword.</p>
<p>“You could always make another one,” Aziraphale suggests, seeing the place his gaze has landed. “I know you’re uncomfortable without something to defend yourself.”</p>
<p>“Nah, it’s fine.” He shakes his head, projecting false cheer into the bond. “Would need more obsidian for that, and it’s too risky. That volcano is in the heart of Hell. I’d never make it there undetected. Beelzebub’s got patrols all over the place down there. Only reason I got away with it the first time was I told the patrol that caught me I was on orders. That won’t fly now, for obvious reasons.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale frowns at him, clearly sensing his true emotions. “My dear,” he says firmly. “I thought we promised not to keep secrets.”</p>
<p>Crowley sighs. <em>Alright</em>, he grumbles inside their minds. Somehow, it’s so much easier than admitting it out loud. <em>I hate not having it. It’s like… being naked. Claws and fangs won’t be enough if someone powerful shows up, and I’m not trusting luck to keep us safe.</em></p>
<p>The angel takes his hand, drawing him close. <em>Then we’ll make a new one. If not with obsidian, then the human way. I’m sure if we imbue it with enough power, it will work.</em></p>
<p>He’s about to reply with all the reasons why it won’t when the doorbell rings. They both jump, staring at each other in trepidation.</p>
<p><em>You think it’s them?</em> Crowley asks, hesitating before the peep hole. Three weeks before, his siblings had discovered his identity, learning in one fell swoop that not only was the brother they had attempted to murder alive, but he was now living on earth as a demon under a new name. They… hadn’t taken it well. Before they left, he had offered to let them return if they ever wanted to talk. Both Crowley and Aziraphale had been waiting for their return ever since.</p>
<p><em>Maybe?</em> Aziraphale leans around him, putting an eye to the small lens in the door. <em>It doesn’t feel like them, but…</em> He stops, and gives a startled laugh. “Well,” he says, turning to Crowley, “it certainly isn’t your siblings.” He opens the door to reveal… a postman. The very same delivery man that had collected the artifacts of the four horse-people at the end of the apocalypse.</p>
<p>“Hello,” the man says cheerfully. “Special delivery for a Mr. Aziraphale and a Mr. Crowley.” He lifts a long, thin box and offers it to them. Crowley stares, suddenly certain he knows what’s inside it.</p>
<p>“No,” he says firmly. “No, absolutely not.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright, dearest,” Aziraphale tells him, reaching around him to lift the package from the delivery man’s hands. “Thank you very much.”</p>
<p>The driver grins cheerfully, offering up a clipboard for him to sign. “Not a problem. Just sign here, please, sir.”</p>
<p>“It’s the funniest thing,” he says conversationally to Crowley as Aziraphale signs. “I was getting started on my rounds when this bloke just drops the package in my lap and asked me to deliver it at this exact time. And, well, normally I’d say no. You’ve got to go through the proper channels, after all. But there was something about him…” he trails off for a moment, staring into the distance with a smile on his face, as if remembering something beautiful. Then he shakes himself, and his eyes focus again. “Anyway, I said I’d take it, and here we are. Thanks -” he accepts the clipboard back from Aziraphale. “Have a good day, gents.” And then, as quickly as he’d arrived, he’s gone.</p>
<p>“What,” Crowley asks very slowly, “was that?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale stares at the box. “I think,” he says, just as slowly, “it’s a gift.”</p>
<p>“A gift.” He takes the poor monkshood plant from Aziraphale before he can drop it trying to balance the box and the pot, and places it on a table by the door.</p>
<p>“Well, what else could it be?” Crowley can feel him reaching awkwardly through the bond, trying to project his confidence and absolute belief that this is a gift from God to them. “Weren’t we just talking about the need for a weapon to defend ourselves? The timing is too perfect for it to be anything else.”</p>
<p>“Hold on, we don’t even really know what’s in there,” he protests, more out of desperation than because he believes there’s a chance it isn’t what he thinks. “It could be anything.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale snaps, and a knife appears in his hand. “One way to find out,” he says, sets the box down on a table, and deftly cuts through the tape holding it shut.</p>
<p>It’s Aziraphale’s sword. Of course it’s Aziraphale’s sword. Taped to the blade is a note in neat handwriting, written in old Aramaic. <em>Just in case. -J</em>.</p>
<p>“J?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley can feel his puzzlement. Silently, Crowley swears in fifteen different languages, a distinct sense of dread settling over him.</p>
<p>“No. No. Absolutely not. Come on, angel, we are getting that postman back and telling him we don’t want it. Take it back. Drop it in a lake somewhere. No.”  He reaches for the box. “I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing here, but <em>no</em>.” There’s only one person that note could have come from. And if the Son of God himself is sending them this…</p>
<p>“What? No!” Aziraphale pulls the box closer, reaching in and gripping the sword by the handle.</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>,” he hisses, knowing his panic is flowing through the bond and utterly unable to stop it. “If he sent that here, that can only mean something is coming. Something he wants us to do. And <em>I want no part in it</em>. For the past <em>six thousand years</em>, we have been part of their plans. I thought, after Armageddon, we were <em>done.</em> <em>Finished.</em> They’d leave us alone. But this-” he points at the sword with a shaking hand. “<em>This is no gift</em>, angel. This is a warning.”</p>
<p>The angel blinks at him, surprised at his vehemence. “Surely not. What danger can they possibly expect now? The war is over, and it won’t be restarted. We’d know, surely, if they were going to try again.”</p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head, the dread growing inside him. Of course. Of course they wouldn’t be allowed to be happy. He’d expected that, really. Nothing wonderful lasts forever. But he had hoped they’d have more time. “There are worse things than another war,” he says bleakly. He deliberately doesn’t think about some of the things he’s seen in Hell. <em>Or</em> the things in Tartarus he’s only ever heard about. He knows if he does they’ll leak through the bond, and he doesn’t ever want his angel to see those horrors.</p>
<p>“Well then,” Aziraphale hefts the sword in his grasp, giving it a few experimental swings. “Best to be prepared, don’t you think.”</p>
<p>Crowley reaches for it, desperate to get the weapon away from his wonderful angel. He hates seeing it in his hands, and knowing what Aziraphale might be forced to do. The angel steps back, holding it away, and Crowley stretches, grasping, only to stop, brought up short by a sharp pain in his chest as the movement pulls at half-healed wounds. “Bloody Heaven,” he curses, hand instantly going to his chest, hissing as it burns.</p>
<p>“Crowley!” Aziraphale is at his side in an instant, steadying him, holding him by the elbow and guiding him over to a chair.</p>
<p>“Ngk,” he winces, waiting for the pain to subside.</p>
<p>“Your wounds again?” the angel asks with sympathy, perching on the arm of the chair and rubbing his back with one hand. With the other, he reaches out to touch Crowley’s life-pattern, tugging on the strings until it becomes visible. It is as beautiful as ever, the deep golden lines looped around and through the strings of another pattern - Aziraphale’s, joined together so thoroughly it would be impossible to untangle them, even in death. They know that for a fact, as Death had tried and failed once before.</p>
<p>“Here, love.” Aziraphale touches a place where the lines are darker, almost grey in color, and feeds some healing energy into the pattern. Instantly, Crowley feels better.</p>
<p>He sighs in relief. “Thanks, angel,” he says, sagging against the chair. He <em>hates</em> this. Three weeks. It’s been three weeks, and he still hasn’t been able to heal himself completely. His physical form is essentially fine, but, it turns out, metaphysical wounds are so much harder to repair. Michael’s sword had cut deep into his essence, stopping his heart as his soul literally bled out from his true infernal form. Aziraphale had called down lightning to restart his heart. Lightning, that had cauterized the wound, stabilizing him until they had managed to send his siblings away. Unfortunately that same lightning had also burned his metaphysical form - and those burns were much slower to heal.</p>
<p>Aziraphale picks up the sword from where he’d dropped it and places it on the table before sinking into a chair beside him, watching him with concerned eyes.</p>
<p>He forces himself to smile, pouring reassurance into the bond. “I think it was a little better this time,” he says. It was. Every time is a little better. The process is just agonizingly <em>slow</em>.</p>
<p>“I think you just proved how important it is we keep this,” Aziraphale tells him softly, tapping the hilt of the sword. “If something happens, if this <em>is</em> a warning, I need to be able to defend you while you heal.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t.” Crowley will destroy himself before he lets Aziraphale be forced to fight. “Protecting you, that’s my job.”</p>
<p>The angel reaches out, gently caressing his face. “My dear,” he says, and through the bond Crowley can sense his love. The feeling will never get old, no matter how often he senses it. There is, he thinks, nothing so wonderful in all of creation. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, but he is grateful for it nonetheless.</p>
<p>“My dearest, I will remind you that I was trained as a soldier. I led a platoon during the war. I <em>can</em> fight, if the situation calls for it.” Images leak from his mind. The bloody battle field. A sword in his hand, trembling above a terrified demon. Standing in a line of principalities, practicing blows with the sword.</p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head, furious with God that She put Aziraphale through that. “Yeah,” he says. “But you hated it.”</p>
<p>“I did,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t. I hated killing, when I did not truly understand why I must. I will never hate protecting you.”</p>
<p>Crowley can’t quite manage to believe that. Just as he can’t truly believe Aziraphale will be able to protect him. Both Michael and Lucifer had promised as much before. Sworn they would keep him safe. And look where that had gotten him. It’s not that he doesn’t believe his angel, he knows he means every word. He just doesn’t believe he’ll be able to, if it comes down to it. If the two most powerful of all the archangels had been unable to uphold their promise to him, there’s not even a slight possibility Aziraphale will be able to.</p>
<p><em>Listen to me</em>, Aziraphale insists, going deep enough into their bond that his sea-blue eyes shift, turning bright golden-yellow as he speaks inside Crowley’s mind. <em>I am a principality. I was </em><strong><em>made</em></strong><em> to guide and protect. Allow me now the honor of protecting you.</em> When that doesn’t sway him, he adds softly “I swore an oath to you, Crowley. You will suffer no more harm from the archangels or Lucifer. I will not permit it.”</p>
<p><em>I don’t want you in danger</em>, he admits, the honesty of those words biting at him. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would have refused to speak them. When he would have insisted Aziraphale hand over the sword and let him take care of himself. A time when he watched over Aziraphale silently, swooping in to rescue him like a knight in shining armor, and then parting ways to nurse his mental and physical wounds in private. There was comfort, in holding the angel at arm’s length. In projecting the image of the always-confident demon and only allowing himself to break down where no one could see. He would not give up their bond for anything, but it makes everything so much harder when Aziraphale insists he bring his pain out into the light.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to be in danger either,” Aziraphale says. “But if <em>you</em> are in danger, I would vastly prefer to be by your side. I won’t survive your death a third time. You know that.”</p>
<p>Crowley relents. “Alright,” he sighs. “We can keep the bloody thing.” And then, in an effort to lighten the mood, he adds “but you’d better have an answer ready if some damned academic comes knocking wanting to know why the real Excalibur is here in Devil’s Dyke.”</p>
<p>Just as he had intended, Aziraphale chuckles. “I’m still astonished you figured that out. You know, he wore that sword hundreds of times right in front of me, and it still took you swinging by to figure it out.”</p>
<p>The demon grins. “’S a talent. I bet if we look hard enough, we’ll find other places it’s popped up in human history.”</p>
<p>“Oh!” Aziraphale brightens, a familiar glint in his eyes as he looks over at the shelves of books that line the walls of their cottage. “I bet my books have some information on that. I wonder how many references to my sword we can find?”</p>
<p>Crowley relaxes, watching fondly as Aziraphale starts to pull volumes down and set them on the table, some even on top of the sword itself. Hopefully the project will be enough to distract him. It’s bad enough his own mind can’t help but conjure up hundreds of awful scenarios in which Aziraphale might be forced to defend them. He doesn’t want the angel, who already has more than enough to worry about, to be forced to deal with Crowley’s fears as well.</p>
<p>Aziraphale stops as he moves past Crowley’s chair, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “We’ll be fine, dearest,” he says softly. “Maybe it’s just as the note says - just in case. And nothing will truly happen.”</p>
<p>“Maybe,” he agrees, though he doesn’t believe it in the slightest. He looks over at the monkshood by the door, and starts to consider what other plants he might add to his poison garden. He might not be in any condition for a head-on fight, but there are other things he can do in a pinch. And it never hurts to be prepared.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all for reading so far!! I'm still super low on spoons, but I will try to start replying to comments. Thank you to those who have left comments or kudos, I treasure each and every one I receive. ❤️</p>
<p>Fair warning that I'm playing pretty fast and loose with parts of Christian mythology here, so some things might not exactly line up perfectly with the bible as we go. </p>
<p>Also, I'm adding a warning tag for deadnaming as poor Crowley is going to get called Raphael an awful lot by his siblings at first, so please be careful if that's something that triggers you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Black Gates are open. They hang, broken, from crumbling hinges, as if some great force had blown them outward. Worse, it is unguarded. In six thousand years, he has never seen the gate to Hell unguarded. He had expected to fight his way through, hoping the violence will help to calm the echos in his head. He feels somewhat cheated, to find it so easy to enter.</p>
<p>Something shifts beside the road and he turns, sword at the ready. A pile of trash scatters, tumbling down the bank into the river. Underneath it, a minor demon surfaces.</p>
<p>“Pretty angel!” it says, looking at him with hungry eyes. “So beautiful. So much light.” It reaches out with a trembling arm, and he steps back, away from the filth.</p>
<p>“What happened here?” he demands, lowering his sword to point at the disgusting creature’s head. “Where are the guards?”</p>
<p>The trash demon gives a deranged cackle. “Guards are gone!” It crows. “All gone.” It makes a gesture like an explosion with dirty, scaly hands.</p>
<p>“Where did they go?” he growls, an odd, cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The demon just laughs.</p>
<p>“All gone,” it mumbles through it’s hideous laughter. “All gone, all gone. All of us are gone.”</p>
<p>He puts the point of his sword against the demon’s forehead, pressing until a small trickle of blood and black ichor leaves a trail down the muck coating its skin. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, deadly serious.</p>
<p>The creature looks up at him in fear, and for just a moment in it’s sickly yellow gaze he sees serpentine golden-yellow. Then he blinks and the memory is gone. <em>Not Raphael</em>, he reminds himself savagely. <em>Raphael is dead. That thing was just an impostor.</em></p>
<p>The trash demon stares at him, trembling.</p>
<p>“Do. You. Know. Who. I. Am?” he repeats steadily, not allowing his inner turmoil to seep into his voice.</p>
<p>“I know. I know you, pretty archangel. Bright one, yes. Yes, Bright one, he called you. I see.” It cackles. “Yes, I see. All the cracks. So many places where the light leaks out.”</p>
<p>He hits it across its face with the flat of his blade. “You will not speak to me like that,” he growls, chilled to the bone. <em>Bright one</em> had been Raphael’s nickname for him, once. To hear it now, from a demon’s lips, it makes his skin crawl.</p>
<p>The trash demon yelps, scrambling backward until it teeters on the edge of the bank, almost falling down into the river below.</p>
<p>“Now,” he raises his sword again, feeling a sickening sense of satisfaction when the demon flinches. “Where are the guards?”</p>
<p>“The Beast has them,” it cries, wide eyes focused on his blade. “The Beast has <em>everyone</em>.”</p>
<p>He scoffs, turning away from the creature and back toward the gates. Clearly, the vile thing is too deranged to give him a straight answer. Beyond the gates, Hell is just as deserted. He can see the empty road winding out into the distance, and there, just at the edge of his vision, the enormous office building that sits at the heart of the infernal realm. It rises up and up into the sky, too high for even his eyes to see. He’s used to seeing it crawling with demons. He’d avoided the elevator straight from Heaven for that very reason. Without a pass, he would have had to fight down several hundred stories worth of demons before he got to the lowest level and Lucifer’s throne room. At least, that was how it <em>should</em> have been. The whole place should have resembled nothing more than an overturned beehive, too many tainted bodies competing for far too little space. Instead it is eerily silent. Not a demon in sight.</p>
<p>“The abyss is open!” the trash demon shouts behind him. “The abyss is open, and The Beast is <em>angry</em>!”</p>
<p>He steps through the gates. Immediately, hands reach out to grab him from the shadows. A bag of some kind is roughly shoved over his head. He struggles, cursing, trying to stab his attackers. They are entirely silent as they take his sword from him, giving him no way to identify his attackers. He continues to struggle until something hard is brought down on the back of his head. He hears a vicious chuckle in his ears, and then everything goes black.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley wakes up in a cold sweat. That, in and of itself, is not unusual. Five nights out of ten find him dragging himself out of a nightmare. It’s been even worse in the past few weeks, where nine times out of ten he wakes choking on a scream. What is unusual is the warm feeling of love wrapped around him, the soft gentle light of it spreading out through his mind, warming him, chasing away the shadows. Aziraphale.</p>
<p>“Back with me, my dear?” the angel asks once Crowley’s eyes find his. Carefully he puts aside his book and smiles, letting more of that warm and gentle light flood through their bond. Then he opens his arms to the demon.</p>
<p>Crowley goes to him, curling close and letting the solid comfort of Aziraphale’s embrace steady him, bring him back from the ledge. This, too, is new - relatively speaking. Two years ago he would never have dreamed he would allow anyone to see him like this, shaking and vulnerable.</p>
<p>“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asks quietly, gently massaging his scalp with one hand and holding him tight with the other. The demon melts against him, forgetting the horrors of his dreams in favor of the feel of Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair.</p>
<p>“Not much to say,” he mutters. “Just… flashes. Images.” It had started out like most of his recent nightmares, running through the empty halls of Heaven, searching for someone he could never find. In the mornings he can’t quite decide if the person he’s looking for is God, Aziraphale, or his siblings. He hates this dream, for all he’s used to it. He would almost swear off sleep entirely for a few decades, save that his body still needs it while he’s healing. So instead, every night he runs and runs, his footsteps echoing down pristine white hallways, all of it devoid of life.</p>
<p>But then the dream had changed. He’d been standing outside the Black Gates. Nobody uses the Black Gates, his rational mind remembers. They’re big and showy, meant to intimidate. The only time you go through them is if you’re being dragged in for punishment. Otherwise, they are always closed. But in his dream, they had been open. Not just open, but <em>blasted</em> open, from the inside. And there had been a demon there, hidden under a pile of refuse. He couldn’t remember most of what it had said, but just before he’d woken, he’d heard it clearly.</p>
<p>
  <em>The abyss is open.</em>
</p>
<p>Crowley shivers.</p>
<p>“Were you… dreaming of Heaven again?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, comforting. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows of their bedroom, and he can hear birds singing their morning greeting to the sun.</p>
<p>
  <em>The abyss is open.</em>
</p>
<p>No. Not here. He will not allow the shadows of Hell to dominate his life. He belongs here, at Aziraphale’s side, not there, in the dark, alone.</p>
<p>He shakes his head, as much to clear it as to say ‘no’. “Not Heaven.” He presses his face to Aziraphale’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of him. Old books. Cocoa. Myrrh. He smells of safety, and of home.</p>
<p>“Ah.” Aziraphale makes a noise of understanding. “I see.” His grip on Crowley grows tighter, holding him to his chest. “You will <em>never</em> have to go back there. I would burn both Heaven and Hell to the ground before I see you forced to spend even <em>one second</em> more in that awful place.”</p>
<p>Crowley grins, amused by the image. Not even all six archangels together have the power to do what Aziraphale suggests, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.</p>
<p>“I mean it,” his angel says, sensing his amusement. “They can’t have you.”</p>
<p>“I know, angel.” He lets himself be comforted. It is just a nightmare, after all. The abyss has been locked tight, sealed by God Herself since before even his birth. Only the full Dark Council has the authority to open it, and he knows they never will. They know too well what would happen. Not even Armageddon had prompted them to break the seal. They won’t just go and break it now.</p>
<p>After a time, Crowley relaxes, letting the tension seep from his limbs as Aziraphale continues to hold him close. Here, wrapped up together in their bed on a lazy morning, it is the most marvelous feeling he has ever known. Their bond burns brightly in his mind, illuminating the hidden places of him. Each day it grows stronger. And each day a little more of the pain he carried alone for six thousand years is burned away.</p>
<p>“Shall I see to your wounds now?” Aziraphale’s soft suggestion breaks the spell of contentment that had fallen over them both.</p>
<p>Crowley sighs, then nods sitting up with reluctance and removing his shirt. He doesn’t need to, not for this, but he likes the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands on his bare chest. They’ve been doing this every morning, and at night before Crowley goes to bed. The wounds on Crowley’s essence are slow to heal, but this helps move it along just a little faster.</p>
<p>Aziraphale touches his life-pattern, fingers brushing the golden lines that hang just above his chest, and feeds healing energy into the weaving. Crowley sighs in relief as more of the burning pain melts away.</p>
<p>“That went better today,” the angel observes, when the last of the energy has been absorbed. “I was able to get a lot further than yesterday.” He grins, clearly encouraged. “You’ll be good as new in no time.”</p>
<p>Crowley can’t help but grin back, sharing his pride in Aziraphale through the bond. “We’ll make a proper healer of you yet,” he says, the darkness of his dream all but forgotten. He stretches and stands, noting with pleasure that the movement is not quite as difficult as it was the day before.</p>
<p>They get ready for the day together, a familiar dance of bodies and words as they maneuver around each other in their small bathroom. They could miracle the room larger, but this closeness suits them just fine. After six thousand years of pretending indifference, it’s nice to just exist together like this.</p>
<p>After breakfast, Crowley goes to his greenhouse, leaving Aziraphale to his books inside. He spends the morning working with his plants, pruning, watering, checking them over for spots or illness - no insect would <em>dare</em> damage a plant in his garden. Pollinators he allows, but anything that would eat leaves or flowers is kept out in the same way he banished the snow. He can feel his angel in the house, concentrating on repairing the binding of a particularly old bible he’d found the other day - one that, for some odd reason, has pluralized every reference to the beast in Revelations. Crowley hums, his contentment flowing through their minds, feeling Aziraphale echo it back to him. Soulbond. The bond is strong between them. Stronger, even, in some ways, than the bonds he once had with his siblings. Sometimes the strength of it scares him. He knows if this bond breaks, his mind will shatter like a dropped porcelain vase.</p>
<p>It’s late morning, nearly afternoon, when Aziraphale decides they need a break. Crowley can feel him coming from the house, but stays where he is. He’s working on the plans for his new poison garden, and he’s <em>almost</em> got it just right. Instead, he sends a pulse of love and welcome through the bond, an acknowledgment that he knows Aziraphale is there.</p>
<p>“Crowley?” the angel asks, stepping into the small workroom he keeps inside the greenhouse.</p>
<p><em>Here, angel</em>, he sends back without even thinking about it.</p>
<p> “Is it always like this?” the angel asks, coming closer. He’s not as comfortable responding mentally yet, but he’s getting there. Crowley can feel his pleasure every time they speak mind-to-mind and he sees the blue of his own eyes within Crowley’s.  The demon can remember how disconcerted he had looked, long ago, when Raphael’s eyes would change in front of him to the icy blue of Michael’s or the deep dark void of Lucifer’s, but he seems to enjoy it now that the color belongs to him.</p>
<p>“Like what?” Crowley asks, only half listening. He just needs the measurements for the new bench now. A worktable for poison making. Or perhaps he’ll try his hand at perfumes. Or both. He isn’t sure yet, but he has time to decide.</p>
<p>“The bond.” Aziraphale joins him, resting a hand on his shoulder as he leans over to inspect the plans. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Even when I’m in the house, I can feel what you’re feeling on some level. I think I even heard you humming earlier. Is that normal?”</p>
<p>“Oh, ah,” Crowley blushes. “I’d forgotten about that.” He hadn’t meant Aziraphale to hear him. He was never the best singer in Heaven, and Falling hadn’t done anything to improve his voice. He enjoys it, he’s just not very <em>good</em> at it.</p>
<p>“Mm. Your voices is lovely, dear. You should sing more often.”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Crowley feels his cheeks heat. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>“So that <em>is</em> normal then,” Aziraphale asks again.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Crowley nods, turning to look at him. “Every thing we do’ll bleed over a little bit. We can put up blocks, if it’s bothering you.”</p>
<p>The angel is so close he can feel his breath on his cheek. “No,” he says. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”</p>
<p>“Good,” he smiles, looking into those wonderful sea-blue eyes. Even now, it’s hard to believe he’s allowed to be this close.</p>
<p>Aziraphale leans in and kisses him, slow and sweet. The shock he feels at the touch is amplified between them, followed by the warm rush of pleasure and love. This, here, this very moment is worth every single second of suffering for the past six thousand years. Before their bond, he hadn’t ever known he could feel something so wonderful. Now, Aziraphale makes sure he learns it again, every day.</p>
<p>“There now,” the angel is laughing as he pulls away, grinning at the no doubt stunned expression on Crowley’s face. “You’re already distracted. Why don’t you come in for some lunch?”</p>
<p>“You did that on purpose,” Crowley grumbles, secretly pleased. “Sneaky bastard.” They both know he wouldn’t have stopped for a break at all if Aziraphale hadn’t distracted him.</p>
<p>“Ah, but I’m <em>your</em> sneaky bastard,” Aziraphale reminds him. “And I say you deserve a break. You’ve been working hard all morning.”</p>
<p>He shakes his head, but starts rolling up his plans anyway. “The garden isn’t going to build itself,” he protests.</p>
<p>Aziraphale just watches him, waiting. “And yet we have all the time in the world to get it done.” Then, before Crowley can come up with another objection, he adds “I was thinking we could drive into Tadfield later, see how Adam and his friends are getting on.”</p>
<p>He considers the idea, and finds he likes it. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “We can stop by and see book-girl on our way out.”</p>
<p>They walk back to the house, making plans to stop by and see all their human friends. He’s so engrossed in the conversation, he almost doesn’t notice the pulsing of the wards. He hasn’t yet had the strength to put them up around their land again, but after the scare from the postman yesterday he wrapped them tight around the house, just in case. And, it seems, just in time.</p>
<p>It is, in fact, Aziraphale that notices first.  He puts a hand on Crowley’s arm, looking at him with concern. “Dear, what’s that sound?”</p>
<p>Crowley stops, frowning, then goes pale. The wards are great a deep humming buzz around them. “Angel,” he says, voice strained. “Get the sword.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale nods, holding out a hand and summoning it to him. “What is it?” he asks.</p>
<p>The demon stalks toward the door. Now that he’s listening, he can feel a presence approaching. The wards he’s placed around their home sing with warning. There’s only one sort of being that can produce this particular resonance within his power. Clear, high notes that ache within the place that holds his broken bonds.</p>
<p>The doorbell rings. They exchange a glance, one look saying everything. Aziraphale’s grip tightens on the blade. He reaches out, and catches Crowley’s hand, squeezing it too.</p>
<p>“Maybe they’re just here to talk,” Aziraphale suggests, though he doesn’t sound like he believes it.</p>
<p>“Maybe,” Crowley agrees. He can sense no malice in the presence behind the door, just frustration, confusion, and sorrow. He hesitates, fingers hovering above the handle. Over six thousand years, it’s been, since they’ve seen him as their brother. He is painfully aware of the scars that adorn his body now, the product of their last, disastrous meeting with Raphael. Have they come to talk, to see if he really is still their brother? Or have they come to finish what was started so long ago?</p>
<p>Aziraphale sends him a sense of comfort and love. <em>I meant what I said</em>, he tells Crowley. <em>I will not allow them to hurt you again.</em></p>
<p><em>Thanks, angel</em>. He won’t let it come to that. They could also be here for Aziraphale, and that <em>he</em> won’t allow.</p>
<p>He takes a deep breath. And opens the door.</p>
<p>There, on the doorstep, is Sandalphon.</p>
<p>Crowley blinks in shock. Of all his siblings, he had not expected <em>Sandalphon</em> to be the first to come to see them. Uriel, he had thought. Or perhaps Gabriel. He knows Michael will not come, not at first. Not after what she did at their last meeting. It will take time for her to be able to face him again. But he had not expected his youngest brother to be the one to reach out first. Their relationship had always been a rocky one, as they had always been polar opposites in temperament and interests. Of his four angelic siblings, he had thought Sandalphon would be the least effected by his death. To see him here, now, the first to come to him…. It is a surprise, but a pleasant one.</p>
<p>“Sandalphon,” he says then stops, unsure how to continue. Normal greetings don’t exactly seem to fit in this.</p>
<p>His little brother shifts awkwardly on his feet, not quite able to look him in the eyes. “You said we could come talk. I…” He trails off, shrugging.</p>
<p>“I… yes, yes of course.” This is painfully awkward. Worse than he thought it would be. He cannot find the words he wants to say. “Would you… we were about to have lunch. Do you want to join us?”</p>
<p>Again, Sandalphon looks at him, just barely meeting his eyes. “I… yes.” After a pause, he adds “Please.”</p>
<p>Crowley can feel Aziraphale tensing beside him, can feel his unease through the bond. As much as he hates it, it’s a feeling he shares. He does not want Sandalphon in their house. Not yet. Not when he still isn’t sure he can be trusted. This house is <em>theirs</em>, and he is not yet ready to share it.</p>
<p>“Come on, then,” he says, passing Sandalphon, though every muscle in his body tenses while his back is to his brother. “We can sit in the garden.” Aziraphale follows, a solid, steady presence at his side. He lowers the sword, but does not put it away.</p>
<p>Sandalphon joins them, walking on Crowley’s other side. The demon can’t help but notice the way his eyes catch on the brightest of his flowers, or the birds that sing around them. A murder of crows has made a home in the trees out by the greenhouse, and their harsh cawing soon reaches their ears. Sandalphon watches them in fascination.</p>
<p>“Don’t get down to Earth much, do you?” Crowley asks, when the silence grows too uncomfortable.</p>
<p>Sandalphon shakes his head. “No reason to,” he explains. “Gabriel doesn’t like it when we do things without a reason.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.” He doesn’t like that. He still doesn’t really understand why Michael left Gabriel in charge of Earth, but he doesn’t have her here to question. “Well,” he adds after an awkward pause. “This is my garden. Everything here, I grew myself.” He lets pride seep into his voice. He has reason to be proud here, this garden is the work of a master. He guides his little brother on a small tour, pointing out different plants and talking about their uses. He finds himself falling into an old, half-forgotten pattern, like when he used to teach his siblings about their Mother’s creations. Sandalphon follows along, nodding politely. He is tense, that much Crowley can understand. There is no precedent here, no rules for them to follow. They must make it up as they go, and his youngest sibling has never been very good at imagination.</p>
<p>They stop at his workroom, where Sandalphon peers inside. He frowns, and takes a step forward, examining the small room. “It’s… hmm.” He trails off, noting the pots with particularly difficult flowers, the long bench covered in tools and plant clippings, the rolled up plans by the door, and a haphazard stack of lumber in the corner he’s set aside for building another flower bed. He turns back to Crowley, a stiff, pained look on his face. His eyes, once again, slide away from the demon’s, and Crowley realizes with a start that his face is bare. His glasses sit forgotten on his work bench, right where he’d left them that morning. He snaps, and they settle back into place over his eyes. Sandalphon relaxes a tiny bit more.</p>
<p>“Do you… remember your office?” his brother asks hesitantly. “In the Halls of Healing?”</p>
<p>Crowley nods, remembering. He’d had his own little garden there, too. It had been far smaller than this, but he had loved it. He has many of those plants here, too, but there are some that can only grow in the light of Heaven. He’s contemplated trying to steal a bucket of soil from Heaven and trying anyway, like he has with a few infernal plants that take up a small corner of his greenhouse, but he’s not sure it would work, or even be worth the risk to try.</p>
<p>“You used to try to sneak in with Gabriel and take the fruit from my orange trees,” he says, remembering. How many times, had he been forced to chase them off, threatening dire punishments if they ever came near his plants again.</p>
<p>“You made it easy, leaving that tree by the window where we could reach it,” Sandalphon counters, grinning at the memory.</p>
<p>“It needed the light!” Crowley protests. “I couldn’t move it out of reach unless I wanted to put in a skylight!”</p>
<p>“We would have knocked the hole in the roof for you,” Sandalphon says.</p>
<p>Crowley laughs, bright and honest. “And brought down the building while you were at it. No thanks.”</p>
<p>The laughter between them fades awkwardly back into silence and they stand there, uncomfortable, neither one knowing how to break it.</p>
<p>“Did…” he hesitates, and glances at Aziraphale before continuing. “Did Anael keep it? My garden?” He assumes they had his apprentice take his place. He’d trained her with that in mind, those last few years where he knew what was going to happen. That’s what upsets him most about Azrael’s offer to him, as he lay dying. <em>Heaven needs a healer</em>, Death had said. But Heaven <em>had</em> a healer. A good one. It didn’t need him. He’s not sure it ever did.</p>
<p>His bother nods. “She expanded it. Knocked down the wall and built out. Uriel says you would have liked it.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” He’s not sure why he asked. Why it matters, when he has <em>this</em> garden, without the rules of Heaven telling what he can and cannot grow. “I- that’s good, I’m glad.”</p>
<p>“Are you-” Sandalphon starts, then stops and looks away.</p>
<p>“Am I what?” he prods gently, stepping back into the warm light filtering down into the greenhouse. There’s a chill in the air, despite the balmy temperature. Aziraphale watches Sandalphon warily from the other side of the room, far enough to give them some semblance of privacy, but near enough he can be there to help if need be.</p>
<p>“Raphael?” his little brother asks. “Are you still our brother?”</p>
<p>Crowley freezes, then sighs, running a hand through his hair and trying to come up with an answer. He’d known they would ask this, whichever of his siblings returned to him first. Maybe all of them will. But he’s not sure how to answer it at all. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I’m… whoever I am now. But I don’t- I didn’t…” <em>I didn’t stop loving you</em>, he wants to say. He’s not sure if he can.</p>
<p>“He isn’t Raphael, but he’s still your brother,” Aziraphale says, coming to his rescue. “He still loves you.” Crowley sends him a pulse of gratitude through the bond.</p>
<p>“Gabriel says you’re just a trick, something Lucifer sent to hurt us,” Sandalphon accuses. “He says you can’t be Raphael.”</p>
<p>“I’m not,” Crowley says firmly. “My name is Crowley. I’m not an archangel any longer. But I’m still your brother.”</p>
<p>“Prove it,” Sandalphon demands. For all he’s cultivated the appearance of a mafia don, in this moment Crowley sees still the fledgling angel he’d carried from the nursery himself in those early days, young and raw and angry.</p>
<p>He chooses his words carefully, knowing that if he gets this wrong he will lose this. This precious chance to see his siblings again. “Little warrior,” he says, keeping his voice soft and quiet. He ignores Sandalphon’s quick inhalation of breath at the ancient nickname. “There are a thousand things I could tell you that only our siblings would know. But would you believe me, when Lucifer, too, was once our brother? If I am a trick sent by him, wouldn’t he give me all that knowledge?” He shakes his head. The easy way to solve this is for him to let down his walls, let Sandalphon into his mind to see the place where their bond lies broken inside him. He can’t do it. Just as he’s not ready to allow his siblings into their house, he is not yet able to allow them into his mind.</p>
<p>“Then tell me this - why did you Fall? Weren’t we enough?”</p>
<p>He closes his eyes on the pain that question brings him. At his side, Aziraphale bristles, ready to send Sandalphon on his way.</p>
<p><em>It’s alright</em>, he tells the angel privately, watching Sandalphon’s face darken as Aziraphale’s eyes briefly reflect his own yellow-gold.</p>
<p>“I-” What could he say? “It wasn’t you. Don’t even think it. I didn’t - I never <em>wanted</em> to leave you.”</p>
<p>“Then why did you leave?” Sandalphon demands, pain breaking in his voice. “You promised you wouldn’t, but you <em>did</em>.”</p>
<p>“I promised you would have to kill me, for me to leave you,” Crowley reminds him softly. “And you did.”</p>
<p>The words hang in the air between them, almost visible in the silence. Sandalphon turns away, gripping the back of a chair with shaking hands.</p>
<p><em>Crowley,</em> Aziraphale’s mental voice is warm and full of concern.</p>
<p><em>It’s alright, </em>Crowley tells him again. <em>This conversation needs to happen.</em> It’s painful, yes, but not the sort of pain Aziraphale swore to protect him from. This is healing pain. The ache of a needle sewing damaged skin together, or the sting of hydrogen peroxide cleaning out a dirty wound.</p>
<p>The silence is broken by a sharp ‘pop’, and Crowley’s wards flaring to life around them. He jumps back, reaching for Aziraphale, only to find the angel standing between him and the newcomer, sword bursting into flame in his hands.</p>
<p>“Sandalphon!” Uriel calls, already striding towards him from the place she materialized. “We need you.”</p>
<p>“What?” His little brother asks, turning to stare at her.</p>
<p>“Gabriel’s done something stupid. We have to go, now, before Michael finds out.” She stops, frowning, looking around herself. Her eyes fall on Aziraphale, with his sword. And behind him, Crowley, fingers tipped in wicked black claws.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she says softly, expression crumbling. “I didn’t know you were…”</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” Crowley says, letting his claws fade back to normal finger nails. “What’s happened with Gabriel?”</p>
<p>Uriel looks between him and Sandalphon, then seems to make a decision. “He’s been taken,” she tells them. “By Hell.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Apologies for the long time between updates. Life started hitting really hard and really fast at the end of October, and the punches still aren't quite done. Thank you for sticking with me so long! I can't yet promise regular updates, but I intend to keep putting up chapters as I can, and hopefully return to a biweekly schedule once life decides to find another punching bag.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Archangel Michael stands strong under the harsh, unforgiving light of Heaven. She is stone. She is steel. She is ice. She cannot break, not as she did on Earth. Her strength is what kept them alive through the horrors of war. Her siblings rely on the steel in her spine, to keep them grounded when the world falls apart. They need her still to be that rock in the storm, unchanging, immovable, unbreakable. They lost the heart of them, six thousand years before, and his loss is a void that will never be filled. Without Raphael, Michael was forced to become their anchor. She is a poor one, she knows. But it’s all they have. They have made her their constant, if only as something to hate.</p>
<p>So she weathers the storm that follows their visit to Earth. She stands still and silent through Gabriel’s tantrum. Grits her teeth through Uriel’s damning questions. And she does not back down from Sandalphon’s silent, angry gaze. She makes herself a glacier. Reliable. Frozen. Unbent by neither wind nor wave. And when they are done, their tempest beat to nothing against her sturdy walls, they leave her, as they always have, to repair the damage on her own. It is then, that she is free to finally try once more to wash the blood from her shaking hands. The rust-red flakes have long fallen away, but she can still see the stain, crimson on her gilded skin. The light of Heaven shines heavily down upon her. Cold. Unfeeling. She cannot hide within it, not even from herself. Still, she tries and hopes that if she pretends hard enough, one day she might forget the sick feeling of her blade sinking into flesh and grating across bone.</p>
<p>Now, though, she cannot forget. So instead she retreats into herself, wishing in vain for something she can never have again. In the silence, a hand falls heavy on her shoulder. She turns, and looks up into the familiar eyes of a ghost.</p>
<p>“Here again, little sister?” Lucifer asks, sliding in to sit pressed against her side. Ruby-red wings wrap around her, pulling her close. She leans into him, drawing comfort from his presence, fictional as it is. She is under no illusions. Her ghosts exist only here within her own mind. They are constructs, and nothing more. But still they bring her comfort, here in the sharp and aching silence that has become her world.</p>
<p>“There now.” He rests his cheek against her head, holding her as he had so long ago, when the world had burned to ashes around them. “You are safe here, my strong one.”</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” another voice asks, and she holds her breath until she can swallow back her sob. Raphael kneels at her feet, resting a hand on her knee and looking up at her with those wonderful amber-gold eyes. For a moment, as she watches him, those eyes blur, going more yellow and snake-like. She gives a sharp exhalation, and banishes the demon from her mind. It’s hard. Harder than it’s been in years. She can still see the shock in his eyes as her blade sank into his chest. The little trickle of blood that fell from the corner of his mouth. No. That was <em>not</em> Raphael. The true Raphael is gone, leaving only her pale imitation.</p>
<p>“I failed you.” She can admit it here, with no one else to hear her. “Again.” Three times now, she’s failed him.</p>
<p>“Failed me?” He smiles, squeezing her knee gently. “I don’t think that’s possible.” It’s what she knew he would have said, were he truly here. It’s as much a lie as his presence.</p>
<p>“You’re not real,” she tells him. “You don’t know what happened.”</p>
<p>“Of course we do,” Lucifer tells her, his voice solemn. “We are figments of your mind, after all.”</p>
<p>“We know everything you do,” Raphael adds. “And I think you’ve done the very best you could with what you have.”</p>
<p>She shakes her head. “You would say that. But would you really believe it?”</p>
<p>Raphael smiles warmly at her, that same beautiful smile that had always been just for her. “You know I do. I will always believe in you.”</p>
<p>“Would that I were worthy of your faith.” She has never been the person he sees when he looks at her, but now she feels less so than ever.</p>
<p>“You are.” He stands, coming to sit at her side, leaning against the crimson feathers that Lucifer has wrapped around her.</p>
<p>“Talk to us,” their older brother says, adjusting his wings to wrap around Raphael as well. “Tell us what happened.” Raphael hums in contentment, curling up against her side. It ignites a phantom ache in her chest. Her illusion is good. Better than good. It has strength and weight and movement perfected over six thousand years of work. It has his colors and his voice, his robes, his hair. Even the little sounds he makes are exactly as she remembers him. She has brought to life every little detail she could dredge up from the ruins of her mind. It is like Raphael in every conceivable way. But. She cannot give it his warmth. The arm around her back is as cold as Heaven’s light, and the cheek pressed against her shoulder might as well belong to a corpse.</p>
<p>Her concentration flickers, and for a moment she sees another ghost.  The demon. Crowley. Collapsed on the floor and bleeding out in a pile of new snow. She blinks, and it is gone.</p>
<p>“Wait.” Raphael stands, and the image of the demon reappears. “This is what I became?” He kneels next to the body, staring intently at its face.</p>
<p>“No.” From here, she can see the resemblance. As if someone took Raphael and carved the softness from him, revealing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the hard angles of his jaw. Lucifer did a fine job on its construction. She can almost believe it to be real. “That is a puppet,” she growls. “A construct made by Lucifer to replace what he destroyed.”</p>
<p>“He claimed to be Raphael,” her illusory older sibling points out, watching her with eyes that glitter with starlight - so much better than the black-hole gaze of the King of Hell. “And the resemblance…”</p>
<p>“Lucifer knows the art of creation,” she reminds him. “It would not have been hard to create a puppet and imbue it with his memories of Raphael.” It is unforgivable, what Lucifer has done. First, to take Raphael from her, when he had been a gift to them both. A reward, for all they had done in their Mother’s service. And then, to create this… this <em>abomination</em>. To dress it up and make it play pretend… her anger boils within her, and her hands itch to pick up her sword. The wounds she gave him six thousand years ago will be as paper cuts compared to what she will do to him for this.</p>
<p>“Aziraphale believes him,” her false Raphael points out. “And no one knew me better, except you.”</p>
<p>“Aziraphale is a fool,” Michael scoffs. “His guilt blinds him.”</p>
<p>Raphael lifts an eyebrow. “<em>His</em> guilt?”</p>
<p>“He allowed you to Fall.” She has never forgiven him for that. She doubts she ever will. He was <em>right there</em> when Lucifer came to drag Raphael down. And he did nothing, instead allowing Raphael to use the last of his power to send him away. Protecting him, instead of saving himself.</p>
<p>Raphael looks down at the image of the fallen demon. “I don’t think it’s Aziraphale who is blind,” he says slowly. “I think he sees more than you know.”</p>
<p>“He does not,” Michael insists. She waves a hand, and the illusion of the demon vanishes. “He has been deceived. And I allowed it to happen.”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Raphael comes to her. “And that is what troubles you.”</p>
<p>She nods, grimacing against the bitter taste of her own guilt. She may blame Aziraphale for Raphael’s Fall, but she knows her duty. And more, she knows what Raphael would expect of her. What she had promised him she would do. “I believed we were doing our best by him, leaving him to Earth. I never thought…” she shakes her head. “It was the only place where I knew I could keep him safe and away from our siblings.” <em>Away from me</em>, she doesn’t add.</p>
<p>“You did what you could,” Raphael tells her. “You couldn’t have known what would happen. And Gabriel…” he trails off. They both know what Gabriel has become.</p>
<p>A memory flashes in her mind. Bitter yellow eyes staring at her over dark glasses. A harsh voice speaking harsher truths. <em>Don</em><em>’t mourn the Fallen. We know what we lost. Sometimes I wonder though, do you?</em></p>
<p>“Gabriel.” She sighs. “And Uriel. Sandalphon…” she scrubs at her face with her hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with them.” She has heard reports of Gabriel’s tantrums since they returned from Earth. Uriel has all but retreated into her rooms, ignoring her duties to those who report to her. And Sandalphon has been spending hours on the practice courts, taking out his anger on anyone who dares cross his path.</p>
<p>“You’ll do what’s best,” Raphael tells her. “I believe in you.”</p>
<p>She closes her eyes against the pain those words bring. He had always believed in her. But when he needed her the most, she had failed him three times over.</p>
<p>“General?”</p>
<p>Michael looks up. One of her soldiers stands in the doorway, a thin file in his hands. Her illusions vanish from her mind, like mist blown before the wind. One slow, steady breath and she is made of ice once again. Calm. Immovable. Alone.</p>
<p>“What is it?” the words come out harsher than she intends, and the angel flinches. He hesitates, and then offers her the file.</p>
<p>“It’s… your brother, Sir. Gabriel.”</p>
<p>She frowns, pressing her lips into a thin line of displeasure. Gabriel has been a problem lately, ever since the failed apocalypse. His self-control is slipping. If he does not get a hold on himself soon, she will need to step in to prevent disaster. She opens the file, and a photo falls out.</p>
<p>“He, um,” the soldier shifts nervously, and she taps her foot. The sharp sound echoes in the empty chamber. “He evaded our surveillance early this morning. We only just discovered he was gone.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.” She’s not surprised. The only question is where he has gone, and why. If he went after Aziraphale and Lucifer’s puppet, she’ll need to catch up to him quick. That demon may only be a construct, but it certainly has power. Much more than Gabriel can manage in his current state.</p>
<p>The fallen photo flutters against her shoe, and she bends down to pick it up.</p>
<p>“He… he went to Hell. Sir.”</p>
<p>Michael bites back a curse, and the photo slips through her fingers. Gabriel alone stands no chance against Lucifer’s army, but she has no doubt he will try. “Send two squadrons to the elevators,” she orders the soldier. “We’ll need to go down with a show of force if we want to get him out.”</p>
<p>The angel coughs nervously. “He, uh, didn’t go down the elevator.”</p>
<p>She sighs. Of course not. That <em>would</em> be too easy. She finally gets a grip on the photo and stands. “Which way did he go then?” There are four ways into the office building at the center of Hell. The safest, and easiest, is the elevator, but she supposes he could have taken the stairs. He was probably in too much of a temper to wait for the elevator to make its million-level ascent.</p>
<p>For some reason, her soldier looks even more unsettled. “The- the Black Gates, Sir.”</p>
<p>Of course. “Good,” she says. “They’ll have captured him at the gates then. Get me-” she stops, staring at the image in her hands. The gates hang off their hinges, blasted open from the inside. Between them, Gabriel strides into Hell, his sword drawn.</p>
<p>“Mother save us,” Michael whispers.</p>
<p>Behind Gabriel, two figures rise from the shadows. The sight of them causes her blood to run cold. She doesn’t need to see the other two photos in the file to know what happened next.</p>
<p>“Put the army on high alert and post guards at all the entrances. Tell the commanders that Heaven is about to be at war.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Back on Earth Crowley stares at his little sister, certain he misheard her. “Come again?” he asks, frowning.</p>
<p>“Gabriel’s been taken,” Uriel repeats. “Michael had Intelligence following him just in case he tried something stupid like coming to attack you. He gave them the slip early this morning, but we only just found where he went. They caught him entering the Black Gates.”</p>
<p>“You have proof?” It doesn’t make sense. With Armageddon off the table, Hell has nothing to gain from abducting an archangel. Unless Lucifer, in his insanity, thought to drag down another of his brothers to replace the one he lost. The thought chills him.</p>
<p>Uriel offers him a photograph, taken from an odd angle but clear enough to identify Gabriel. “This was taken by Hell Observation six hours ago.” She turns back to Sandalphon. “We need to go now.”</p>
<p>“Wait.” The word is out of Crowley’s mouth before he’s even stopped to consider it. The image in his hands is <em>wrong</em>, in a way he can’t quite describe. The Black Gates hang open, much as they had in his nightmare this morning. Beyond the gates he can see the familiar dim red glow of Hell, and the unmistakable form of his former sibling. And something else.</p>
<p>“What are those?” Aziraphale comes up behind him, leaning over his shoulder to study the picture. Two figures stand beside Gabriel - one in the act of throwing a bag over the archangel’s head, while the other lunges for his hands. Both are identical, and utterly strange. Tall, taller than Gabriel, and unnaturally thin, with skin the color of faded parchment marbled with swirls of color as dark as the endless void.</p>
<p>There’s fear in Uriel’s voice when she answers, though she tries to hide it. “We don’t know. We think some new form of demon.”</p>
<p>Sandalphon gapes at her. “That’s not possible.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t seen anything like them before,” Crowley says, an awful feeling settling in his gut. He doesn’t like the look of them, not one bit. It would have taken Lucifer centuries to develop an entirely new type of demon. If they were created in Hell, word would have gotten out to the gossip network long ago, and Crowley would have been one of the first to hear about it. That he hadn’t could mean many things, none of them good. Add to it that Gabriel’s capture and that unsettling nightmare, and it all wraps up into a recipe of bad.</p>
<p>“Has Hell sent any ransom notes?” In the back of his mind he hears the voice from his nightmare. <em>The abyss is open. The Beast is angry.</em> It has to be a coincidence. He doesn’t know what they’ll do if it’s not.</p>
<p>“No,” Uriel shakes her head. “And the elevator is locked down from the bottom floor. We expect they’ll send something soon. They may just be waiting for us to realize that he’s gone.”</p>
<p>“We haven’t had any communications with Hell in over a month,” Sandalphon adds. He shrugs when they turn to stare at him. “I’ve been reading the logs. I didn’t want to get taken by surprise if Hell decided to start up the war again.”</p>
<p>“Smart,” Crowley approves. The worst thing about cutting himself off from Hell two years ago was the lack of information. If he had access to Hell’s message logs with Heaven he would read them regularly too, if only for the advance warning it could give if either side decided to move against them.</p>
<p>“Why would Hell do this?” Aziraphale asks, frowning. “It makes no sense. They must know Heaven wouldn’t give in to any demands. They have nothing to gain, unless…”</p>
<p>“Unless they’re looking to start another war,” Crowley finishes, feeling sick.</p>
<p>Aziraphale grips his arm hard enough to bruise. “We can’t let that happen.”</p>
<p>“No,” he agrees. “We can’t.” No matter where a war between Heaven and Hell were to start, Earth would be caught dead in the middle, and they have both seen firsthand the terrible things that could come from such a war. His horror at the thought flows out to Aziraphale, and he remembers too late the downside of a soul bond. Aziraphale echoes his horror, multiplying it with his own. It crashes over him like a tsunami, overwhelming him, and then <em>that</em> emotion ripples back out to swamp Aziraphale.</p>
<p>“We won’t just let them have him!” Uriel snaps, unaware of the tidal wave of horror bouncing between Crowley and Aziraphale. The angel looks ready to be sick, and Crowley hurriedly throws up walls between them until their emotions are no longer amplifying each other. Aziraphale sags against him, still a little green around the edges as the echoes fade.</p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head to clear it, no longer used to managing the emotions of others in his mind. “We won’t,” he assures her, as soon as he’s certain he has control over his voice again.</p>
<p>Uriel looks between him and Aziraphale, eyes narrowing as she takes in the sweat that drips down his forehead, and the unsteady way Aziraphale is leaning against him.</p>
<p>Sandalphon scowls. “And how are we supposed to get him back without an army?” he demands.</p>
<p>“We sneak in at take him,” the demon gives them his best cocky grin. “It shouldn’t be that hard. Hell isn’t exactly difficult to get into.” <em>Unlike Heaven</em>, he leaves unsaid.</p>
<p>“<em>We</em>?” His little sister stares at him, and he finds he no longer knows her well enough to read her expressions. Suspicion, he thinks. Fear. And, perhaps, just the tiniest shred of hope.</p>
<p>“What?” He laughs. “You don’t think you’re getting into Hell without a demon to guide you, do you?”</p>
<p>“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice is weak, his stance still a bit unsteady, but he holds the demon’s arm in an iron grip. Even through his walls, Crowley can feel his fear. “You can’t go back there.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” he assures him, projecting a false sense of bravado. Without even realizing it, he’s fallen back into an old habit. Before the War, it had always been Raphael who took charge of his younger siblings in situations such as this. Crowley does so now, without thought or hesitation. Six thousand years were not enough to dull that instinct in him, no matter what his siblings might think.</p>
<p>“No,” Uriel says, though her voice wavers. “Absolutely not.”</p>
<p>He meets her eyes, holding her gaze though she cannot see past his glasses. “If you go in there with an army, you will never get him back.” He keeps his tone calm, informational. It is a simple fact, not a threat. “Lucifer is insane. He tore his own soul in two, and the result is…” he suppresses a shiver. “Less than stable. If he’s taken him, he will kill Gabriel before giving him up to you.”</p>
<p>Uriel flinches at the mention of their former brother’s name. “We can’t accept your help.”</p>
<p>“You can,” he tells her. “And you will. Unless you want to see another Great war.”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.” Her voice is hard, but he can hear a tremor in it.</p>
<p>“Uriel.”</p>
<p>They all turn to look at Sandalphon, who is watching them with a torn expression on his face.</p>
<p>“What are our chances,” he asks, “of getting Gabriel back without Raphael’s help?”</p>
<p>She takes her time replying. Crowley can tell she’s running the numbers through her head, weighing the probabilities and considering all her options. She’d always been that way when they were little, and it comforts him some to see it now. Uriel is the most logical of his siblings. If she reaches the conclusion to trust him, perhaps the others will follow.</p>
<p>He can feel Aziraphale pressing against the hastily erected barriers between them as they wait. He lets them fall away, now that the echoing horror has faded. He’ll have to show Aziraphale how to build such temporary walls himself, and soon. There are far too many risks to leaving his mind completely open, even just to Crowley.</p>
<p><em>You can</em><em>’t seriously be considering sneaking into Hell and kidnapping an Archangel</em>, Aziraphale says, the minute the barrier is gone. <em>After everything they put you through?</em></p>
<p><em>I can</em><em>’t just leave him there,</em> Crowley responds. <em>Not when I know what they</em><em>’ll do to him</em>. Images flash through his mind unbidden. The dark and filthy halls of Hell. Demons grinning at him savagely, mouths full of needle-sharp teeth. The torture chambers, with their beds of bloody nails and rusted manacles dangling from the walls. Six drops of crimson blood on the floor, a seventh falling from his lip to join them. The silver instruments of the torturer, lined up neatly and ready for use. The edge of Tartarus, looking down into the pit where a mad beast thrashes and screams.</p>
<p>Aziraphale gasps, fingers digging deeper into Crowley’s arm.</p>
<p><em>You</em><em>’d risk all of that? For Gabriel?</em> Fear mixes with disapproval in Aziraphale’s thoughts. <em>After everything he</em><em>’s done to you?</em></p>
<p><em>He</em><em>’s still my brother,</em> Crowley tells him. <em> I can</em><em>’t just -</em></p>
<p>An image passes between them. Gabriel’s sword biting into Crowley’s throat.</p>
<p><em>I saw your memory</em>, Aziraphale reminds him, divine anger simmering beneath his words. <em>I saw what he did. He nearly killed you. His own brother, and he was ready to see you die. </em></p>
<p>Crowley swallows back the pain that rises at that memory. <em>I Fell, angel. He had good reason.</em></p>
<p>The angel scowls. <em>No,</em> he says firmly. <em>He did not.</em></p>
<p>Before Crowley can come up with a reply, Uriel sighs loudly. “Fine,” she tells them. “Without you, our odds are one in fifty of getting out without another war. <em>With</em> you, they increase to one in twenty-five. We accept your help.”</p>
<p>“Great!” Crowley rubs his hands together. “Then we’re going to need supplies. And weapons. Angel, would you mind if I borrowed that sword of yours?” He’s not actually sure he can use a holy blade, but he isn’t about to go into Hell unarmed.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“What?” He turns to look at Aziraphale, surprised and a little betrayed. “Why?”</p>
<p>“Because I’m coming with you,” he said, and his tone made it clear there would be no argument.</p>
<p>“Absolutely <em>not</em>.” Fear churns in his gut at the very thought of Aziraphale entering Hell.</p>
<p>The angel holds his gaze and does not look away. “I’m afraid I must insist. I will <em>not</em> be leaving you alone with them,” he gestures to Uriel and Sandalphon, who glare at him. “Nor will I allow you to go back into that place without me to watch your back. If you leave me here, I will just follow you.”</p>
<p>“I’m not about to let you step <em>one foot</em> in Hell again, not if I have anything to say about it,” Crowley protests. The thought of Aziraphale following him to Hell chills him to the bone.</p>
<p>Aziraphale actually rolls his eyes. “I can take care of myself, Crowley. I’m not helpless.”</p>
<p>“And have you ever fought a Hellhound before?” Crowley demands. “Or anything more powerful than a minor demon?” He hates the flash of hurt he feels from the angel, but he’s not willing to let this go. There are many things he’s willing to risk, but Aziraphale will never be one of them.</p>
<p>“I was trained to fight,” Aziraphale reminds him. “You know I can take care of myself.”</p>
<p>“Can you?” he asks, willing Aziraphale to back down. “Hell isn’t anything like the minor demons that make their way up here. And it’s dangerous even without its inhabitants. The very air is corrosive, especially to angels. Not to mention the lava pits, or the acid rain. It brings out the absolute worst in people, then twists it until they destroy themselves.” <em>Don</em><em>’t make me watch you enter Hell</em>, he thinks. <em>I don</em><em>’t want you to see me down there.</em> He won’t be able to hide his more demonic traits once they pass the gates. Hell has a way of forcing them out, amplifying them the longer he stays there, until the creature he sees in the mirror is barely recognizable as himself.</p>
<p>Aziraphale refuses to give in. “You’ve sent me away twice when you needed me,” he reminds him. “And both times you nearly died. I will not allow you to do so a third time. If you are going into danger, you will be taking me with you.”</p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head. “No, angel, I-”</p>
<p>“I swore an oath,” the angel says, each word quiet but heavy with meaning. “I swore in the ancient language to the universe itself, that I would protect you from harm. Do you think the universe will accept ‘Crowley said no’ as an excuse?”</p>
<p>He’s right, of course. An oath in the ancient tongue is binding, not just to God but to the universe. Breaking such an oath would have disastrous consequences.</p>
<p>“<em>You</em>’ll protect him?” Sandalphon asks, incredulous.</p>
<p>Aziraphale looks at him and frowns. “Well, it’s not as if there’s anyone else.” The jab is a pointed one, and Sandalphon looks away.</p>
<p>“Aziraphale,” Crowley warns. He appreciates his angel defending him, but it makes something ache inside him to see him bickering with his siblings like this.</p>
<p>“I mean it, Crowley,” Aziraphale tells him. “If you leave me behind, I’ll just follow.”</p>
<p>And he will. Bless it all, but Crowley knows that look. The way he’s set his jaw and squared his shoulders, looking for a fight. When Aziraphale gets like this, Crowley knows he won’t back down. If he leaves him, he <em>will</em> follow, and likely end up somewhere in Hell without Crowley there to protect him.</p>
<p>He grits his teeth. “Fine,” he bites out. “You can come. Happy?”</p>
<p>“No,” Aziraphale says, but he relaxes and Crowley can sense his relief. “But it’ll do.”</p>
<p>“This is all very amusing,” Uriel says, but we’re wasting time. Every minute we spend waiting is another minute Hell could be torturing Gabriel or using him to start a war.”</p>
<p>“Right. Okay.” Crowley looks around at his plants and picks up a small bag that he begins to fill with packets of herbs. There are many dangers to Hell, and while he can’t predict them all, it is best to be as prepared as possible. “I’m going to need some things here. And I’m assuming neither of you have your swords with you?”</p>
<p>Uriel and Sandalphon look at each other guiltily and shake their heads.</p>
<p>“I, uh, didn’t want to seem like a threat,” his little brother admits.</p>
<p>Uriel shrugs. “I rushed out without it.”</p>
<p>“Then you’ll need to get them.”</p>
<p>They turn to go, but he holds up a hand, several things occurring to him at once. “Wait.” They stop, and he looks around his greenhouse. Healing herbs he has in plenty. Herbs for poultices and potions that will work better on angels than human medicine. Willowbark for pain. Ginger for nausea. Valerian for sleep. He’s managed to grow an entire healer’s kit, but for one very specific thing. The only thing he knows of that can help angels withstand the corrosive atmosphere of Hell - the bark of a Rowan tree, grown under the light of Heaven. He thinks quickly. Can he trust Uriel or Sandalphon to bring him the right plant? He eyes them, remembering Sandalphon’s poor attempts at weeding, where he’d pulled more good plants than bad. Uriel hadn’t been much better to be honest. She could work wonders with dead plants in her lab, but identifying a live tree among several similar-looking trees? He can’t rely on her to get it right either. And, well, he hates to admit it. But a large part of him also suspects that if he lets them out of his sight they would just continue on to Hell without him, and he couldn’t have that.</p>
<p>“You’ll need to take us with you.”</p>
<p>“What?” Uriel and Aziraphale both ask in the same breath. He can feel Aziraphale’s surprise ripple down their bond.</p>
<p>“You need to take us with you,” he repeats. “There’s something I need from my old workroom. And since we don’t have a working bond, I can’t just look through your eyes to show you what I want. I could send Aziraphale, but I’m not sure I want him left alone with you after how you acted toward him.”</p>
<p>“You’re nuts,” Sandalphon says. “There’s no way.”</p>
<p>Crowley frowns. “I need it. There’s no way any of you are going to survive in Hell long enough to get Gabriel back without it.” He ignores the implications of those words. He doesn’t want to think about the likelihood Gabriel took a Rowan charm with him. Or that the torturers would let him keep it.</p>
<p>“No,” his little brother shakes his head. “I mean, there’s <em>no way</em>. All the doors to Heaven are guarded.”</p>
<p>“We can’t do this without it,” Crowley insists.</p>
<p>“We have to,” Uriel tells him. “Swords we can get. <em>Maybe</em>. But if someone catches us and alerts Michael, we’re as good as done. We don’t have time to go guessing at plants in your workroom, and there’s no door we can sneak you in to get it yourself.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” Aziraphale coughs, drawing their attention.</p>
<p>“Angel?”</p>
<p>“I, ah,” he blushes, not meeting their eyes. “I might have a way in.”</p>
<p>Crowley stares, dumbfounded. “Angel? <em>You</em> have a back way into Heaven?”</p>
<p>“Well, not, ah, not <em>me</em>, exactly,” Aziraphale says. “But I, ah, know someone who does. Wait right there. I’ll go phone him.” Before they can say anything, he turns and disappears into the house.</p>
<p>“He knows someone…” Sandalphon echoes, jaw hanging open as he watches Aziraphale’s retreat. Crowley shrugs. It makes sense to him, now that he thinks about it. It’s not like he doesn’t have his own contacts with back ways into Hell, just in case.</p>
<p>Uriel continues to scowl at Crowley.</p>
<p>“What?” he asks, glaring at her in return.</p>
<p>“Why are you helping us?” she demands.</p>
<p>He blinks, staring at her. “Why wouldn’t I?”</p>
<p>Uriel looks away. Surprisingly, it is Sandalphon who answers.</p>
<p>“Because we don’t deserve it.”</p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head. “It’s not about ‘deserve’.” He turns away, surveying his few poisonous plants and wishing he’d thought to get into poisons as a hobby much sooner. There are several different plants he knows to be effective against demons and angels alike, but none of them grow in his garden.</p>
<p>His siblings frown, sharing a look between them that is equal parts pain and confusion.</p>
<p>“Then what is it about?” Uriel asks.</p>
<p>His hands pause, briefly, on a vial of <em>Abrus Precatorius</em>, before carefully sliding several of the vibrantly colored seeds into a pocket of his bag. He has to fight off the instinct to give a sarcastic response. He can’t treat this like a conversation with Aziraphale or their human friends. These are his siblings, and he knows he must tread very carefully if he wants to hold on to the minuscule flame of hope that began to grow in his heart the moment Sandalphon knocked on his door. Hope that he might, one day, have a relationship with them again.</p>
<p>“I could do nothing,” he admits slowly. “Wait and see what happens. Maybe nothing. Maybe you lot will have your war and fight it out in Hell without even touching Earth. But, if it <em>does</em> come here, and I’ve done nothing, then it will be my fault when everything I love is destroyed.”</p>
<p>Uriel frowns, clearly confused by his explanation.</p>
<p>“Is that why you switched the Antichrist?” Sandalphon asks. “Why you worked against Heaven and Hell to prevent the war?”</p>
<p>Crowley shrugs. “This is my home. I wasn’t about to let you destroy it.” He’s not going to admit the whole switching-the-kid thing was a complete mistake. He has to keep some semblance of dignity after all.</p>
<p>“And is it worth the risk?” Uriel demands. “Kidnapping an Archangel from Hell? If this goes wrong, you won’t just be punished. You’ll be <em>dead</em>.”</p>
<p>He holds her gaze then, thinking about Death’s offer and all the reasons he had to refuse it. Warlock. Adam. Anathema. Shadwell. Tracy. The Bentley. Their little cottage. His garden. The life he’s built here with Aziraphale. “Yes,” he says simply. “It is.” He doesn’t point out that if this goes wrong, she’ll be just as dead.</p>
<p>“And sneaking into Heaven? Is <em>that</em> worth the risk?”</p>
<p>“If I don’t, it’s you who will be in danger. I won’t take <em>that</em> risk.”</p>
<p>She looks away. “And being in Heaven won’t be just as bad for you?”</p>
<p>Crowley shrugs. They don’t have time for him to explain the intricacies of the bond he has to his angel - the hows and the whys he can survive in Heaven, or Aziraphale in Hell. She’s just going to have to take his word for it. “We won’t be there long,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>Softly, almost to herself, he hears her mutter “You said that before. And look how it all turned out.”</p>
<p>He has no response to that. She’s right, in a way. He <em>had</em> told her he would be fine, before he Fell. It had been a lie then. In hindsight, a glaringly obvious one. He can’t blame her for disbelieving him when he says it now.</p>
<p>Silence falls between them. And for the first time since he and Aziraphale completed their bond, he feels the raw and burning silence in his mind where his siblings used to be. Uriel and Sandalphon watch him awkwardly as he pulls together the rest of his kit, none of them able to come up with something to say. It’s a tangible relief when Aziraphale returns, carrying his sword.</p>
<p>“He says we should meet him in London,” the angel tells them. “He has just the thing to get us into Heaven unnoticed.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://wanderingalicewrites.tumblr.com/">This fic is reblogable from my writing tumblr!</a>
  <br/>
  <a href="https://wanderingsofal.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on my personal tumblr!</a>
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